


It Pulls Me Under

by teacupsandtime



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Explicit Language, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hurt, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Some fluff ended up sneaking in, Will Graham is so powerful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-18 08:05:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16991184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacupsandtime/pseuds/teacupsandtime
Summary: “Get on your knees.”Hannibal looked up into his eyes and immediately did as he was asked, his legs folding under him until he came to kneel on the wood floor. He looked up at Will, who stared down at him with a blank expression, and waited.“Get up.”He did.Will leaned in and whispered against his lips.“Go downstairs. Get the butcher knife. Bring it here.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure where this came from but I literally couldn't think of anything else until I got it written.

Hannibal stepped into a dark and empty home; no light nor warmth. Moving into the kitchen, he placed the vase on the counter and moved into the back of the house. 

Nothing. 

He called his name and got no response. As he moved to the stairs, he noticed a light in the study and redirected his path. The door creaked as he opened it; no light here either save for the thin dancing ribbons of color on the screen of the laptop. He reached out and tapped the spacebar. 

NOBODY’S VICTIM

MOLLY FOSTER BREAKS HER SILENCE

_She survived The Great Red Dragon. Now, Molly Foster opens up about life with her ex-husband, a man believed to be on the run with Hannibal the Cannibal._

Hannibal skimmed the first couple of paragraphs of Freddie Lounds’ latest article before he closed the lid to the computer and made his way up the stairs. He found Will in the spare room which had previously been his bedroom. He was sitting in a rocking chair he’d finished constructing two weeks ago, his bare feet moving gently from heel to toe. In his hand was a nearly empty glass, a bottle on the floor; his eyes cast somewhere beyond the open window. 

As Hannibal stepped fully into the room, illuminated only by the sparse moonlight, Will turned to him and offered a crooked smile. 

“Happy Anniversary, darlin’.”

His voice was thick, heavy with inebriation, and laced with a drawl rarely heard. Hannibal met his eyes in the dark, watching Will wait for a sign of recognition before he drank the last of what was in his glass with a sharp upward tilt of his chin. 

“What?” Will said. “Don’t you know?”

When he didn’t answer, Will laughed to himself and leaned down to fill his glass from the bottle at his feet. 

“Come on,” he continued. “Sentimental thing like you? You must know.” 

Will’s hair was mussed and soft, the top buttons of his shirt had been hastily opened. As he spoke he lowered the glass in his hand, bringing it to rest between his knees on the chair.

“It’s been one year,” he smiled with a lopsided grin. “One year ago today, I tried to kill us.”

Hannibal watched him drink, rocking back and forth; the thick wooden blade of the chair rubbing against the floor. He looked at his naked feet and remembered seeing them slick and bleeding, covered in heavy, wet sand. Hannibal thought about that night on the beach frequently; both of them clinging to every pained breath, exhausted and cold, baptized into a new life. 

He dreamed of the ocean constantly; of the briny, roiling water that took Will’s shoes and his wedding ring. 

“Are you indulging in regret that you didn’t succeed?” 

Will sighed and looked away from him, the smile fading from his lips. He tapped the side of his glass with his fingers.

“Molly divorced me,” he said. “I guess as a part of divorcing a missing spouse you have to a run an ad in the local paper declaring your intention to remove yourself from said deadbeat . . . runaway. Serial killer.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Bringing one to his mouth, he struck a match and cupped his hand over the end of it. The tip glowed amber as he inhaled, shaking the flame of the match out with a flick of his wrist and inhaling deeply.

“So there was an Order of Notice published in the little paper of the town where we used to live. And now? I’m divorced.”

He pulled the cigarette from his lips and flicked the ashes on the window sill. 

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke, Will.”

Will laughed again with a quick flash of teeth. 

“Mmm, right,” he hummed. “Wouldn’t want my lungs to be blackened unless it was with cumin, cayenne, and paprika, would we Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal’s lips thinned to a line. 

“Would you like for me to leave you alone?”

He took another drag of his cigarette and picked the whiskey up from between his legs. 

“Oh it’s about five years too late for that I’d say.”

White smoke puffed from Will’s mouth as he spoke, no effort made to direct it towards the open window.

“I’m going to start dinner,” Hannibal said. “I will let you know when it’s ready. You may join me or not.” 

The air was stiff around them, still like the first snow of the season. Hannibal turned on his heels to leave the room. 

“Do you regret anything you did to me?”

When he turned back around, Will was standing. He snubbed the cigarette out on the wood of the sill and gulped down the remainder of his whiskey.

“Do you?” he asked again. 

“I am human,” Hannibal said. “As with most humans I do harbor regret.” 

“That’s not what I asked,” Will said, leaning into the wall behind him. “I asked if you regret what _you_ did to _me_.” 

There was venom in his voice; toxic barbs clutched around the words. Hannibal swallowed and straightened his posture. 

“Yes.”

Will nodded slightly. 

“What?” he said. “What do you regret? Tell me.” 

Before Hannibal could open his mouth, Will was walking towards him.

“Was it shoving Abigail’s ear down my throat while I was barely conscious and then making me think I killed her? Was it sending me to prison? Making me go through a trial that exposed every aspect of my life to the public?”

He stepped closer. 

“Was it killing Abigail in front of me and plunging a knife into my guts? Leaving me in a pool of blood on your kitchen floor? Huh? Was it any of that?”

He was right in front of him now. Hannibal met his gaze unwavering. 

“Or was it when you drugged me - again - and took a saw to my head?” he hissed. “What do you regret?”

Will’s eyes were shining, vibrating with anger. His fists were clenched and beating against his thighs. 

“There are aspects to all of those events that I regret,” Hannibal answered after a moment. “I sent you to prison because I had no other choice; it was the only way I could save myself and ultimately absolve you of suspicion. I left you and Abigail in my kitchen because you lied to me-

“Oh, fuck you,” Will interrupted loudly. “Fuck you.”

“You betrayed me, Will,” Hannibal continued. “Never in my life had I opened myself to someone like I did to you and you made a mockery of it.”

“I didn’t,” Will said in a rushed breath. “I just didn’t meet your precise fucking timeline.”

“It was reactionary,” Hannibal explained softly. “But necessary. I wasn’t courting a partner who I envisioned sharing a quiet life with, Will. I revealed myself to you as the man I am and you accepted me, you understood me. Experiencing that primal, basic connection to another soul is not something I had ever encountered and having the curtain pulled back so suddenly was . . . not something I was prepared for.” 

“So you’d rather me be dead?”

“No. Not dead.”

Will could feel the scar on his belly itch; he fought to touch it. In his gut he was overcome with the same emotions he’d felt that night as he lay next to Abigail, the two of them trying to hold life inside of them. He’d lain there and remembered calmly thinking that he deserved this and that now his life would end. 

He remembered feeling calm. 

“I never wanted you dead, Will,” Hannibal continued. “Not then, not now.”

“Why not?” Will asked. “If I hurt you so badly?”

“Our bond - our connection and understanding,” Hannibal said. “You explained it yourself: we are conjoined and unable to survive separation.” 

Will’s eyes shone in the dark. He bit his bottom lip. Hannibal cast his eyes down for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts before he looked back up. 

“I have regrets, Will,” he repeated. “But I don’t intend on creating any new ones.” 

Slowly, he reached out and placed a careful hand on the side of Will’s face, his thumb rubbing against his ear.

“I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you again.”

Will pulled away from his touch.

“No?” he said, his tone light with disbelief.

“No,” Hannibal affirmed. “I would do nothing to risk you and what you have become.” 

Hannibal reached his arm out carefully, brushing his fingers against Will’s wrist. 

“I would do anything you asked me to do.”

The features in Will’s face changed, grew rigid. He brushed Hannibal’s fingers away and reached his own hand up to rest on the side of Hannibal’s neck. He let his fingertips dig into the flesh there, pulling Hannibal closer to him aggressively and forcing his head down.

“Get on your knees.”

Hannibal looked up into his eyes and immediately did as he was asked, his legs folding under him until he came to kneel on the wood floor. He looked up at Will, who stared down at him with a blank expression, and waited. 

“Get up.” 

He did.

Will leaned in and whispered against his lips. 

“Go downstairs. Get the butcher knife. Bring it here.”

Hannibal blinked once - slowly - before he turned and left the room, his feet heavy on the wooden steps. Reaching down, Will grabbed the neck of the whiskey bottle and brought it to his lips, dipping his head back to take a long drink. He returned it to its place on the floor and ran his hands through his hair, pulling painfully for a moment before his arms fell back to his side.

He was vibrating; the tips of his fingers felt numb.

He listened to him return, his heart hammering in his chest. Hannibal stepped back into the room with the rectangular knife held in his hand, the steel handle at his hip. Taking in a quick, shallow breath, Will walked up to him. 

“Give it to me.” 

Flipping the knife, Hannibal extended the handle to him, the blade clenched in his fingers. Will took it, gripping the smooth metal in a tight fist. 

“Turn around.” 

Just as he had with every other request, Hannibal did as he was told. There was a long moment - a hushed still in the air - before he felt Will’s hand come down hard on the back of his neck as he was shoved face first into the wall. He turned his head just before he made impact, feeling Will’s elbow come across his nape. The very tip of the butcher knife was poking into his ribs. 

“You destroyed everything good in my life,” Will spit into his ear. “You made me think I was fucking crazy.” 

“Will-”

“Shut up!” Will yelled. “Just shut the fuck up for once.”

He pushed the tip of the knife in further, enough to puncture the fine fabric of Hannibal’s cream colored shirt as well as his skin. Red blossomed in an imperfect pattern.

“I came to you, half out of my mind, and you lied to my face,” he continued, his voice breaking. “I begged you - I _begged_ you - not to lie to me. And you made me think I was a killer.” 

“You _are_ a killer, Will.”

The knife disappeared from his skin just as his head was snapped back hard by a fist in his hair. In a dizzying motion he heard the knife hit the floor and found himself flung on to his back, his breath fleeing his lungs as he hit the wood. Will dropped on top of him, a knee on either side of his hips, his hands coming around Hannibal’s throat.

Hannibal’s eyes were watering but he made no move to defend himself, his hands gripping the tops of Will’s thighs as the fingers around his neck tightened. Will’s head dipped low, their foreheads nearly touching.

The hands around his neck were tight - so tight - and Hannibal saw his vision blur as he struggled to keep his eyes open. Will’s weight was heavy on top of him, leaning forward on his knees to push harder against his throat.

Hannibal thought of the ocean, of reaching blindly for Will’s hand in the salty, unforgiving dark. 

Without warning, the pressure on his throat was gone and he took in a deep and choking gulp of air. His body coughed in its urgency to bring life back into itself but still he made no effort to dislodge the man on top of him. When his coughing stopped and his breathing returned to a semblance of regularity, Will reached to his side and picked up the knife again. 

Lifting Hannibal’s shirt with one hand, he moved the blade to the skin above his navel. Will’s free hand dropped to push lightly against the scar left by Dolarhyde’s bullet. He held Hannibal steady with that hand and pushed the knife down until the flesh underneath gave way to red. 

Hannibal grimaced slightly, hands still holding onto Will’s legs. 

“Would you ever say to me ‘stop. If you love me, stop’?”

A tear rolled down Hannibal’s cheek as he looked up at him. 

“I am not your keeper,” he said. “You are free to do as you like.” 

Will moved the knife slightly to the right, watching the line of crimson it left it its wake. Hannibal remained still under him - infuriatingly so.

“Are you just going to let me kill you?”

“If that is your wish,” he answered. “I told you - I have no intention of knowingly hurting you ever again.” 

Will’s mouth tightened as he pulled the knife away, the muscles in his jaw flexing. In a fluid motion he moved himself off Hannibal’s body and came to sit on his knees. 

“Get up.”

Lifting his chest, Hannibal came to sit, ignoring the blood that trailed down his belly and collected at the waist of his pants.

“On your knees, in front of me.” 

Hannibal arranged himself as Will instructed, moving forward as he was grabbed with a slick hand and his palm was forced flat to the hard floor. Their bodies hunched inwards, Will kept Hannibal’s left hand pressed to the floor and handed him the handle of the knife with the other. 

“Take it.” 

He did. 

Will’s fingers rubbed against the skin of his hand; neither of them blinked as they stared at one another. The features of Hannibal’s face seemed to smooth; Will could see tiny purple bruises forming around his neck. The air was so hot and smelled of sweat and copper. 

“Cut your hand off.”

Hannibal’s grip on the handle tightened and he seemed to consider what had just been said for the briefest of moments before he raised the butcher knife over his head. Will watched the blade catch a beam of moonlight from the window, thinking that it seemed to illuminate the entire room, before he lunged forward and shoved hard at Hannibal’s shoulder. The knife went clacking to the ground and Hannibal was on his back again, Will pressed hard into his side, his body shaking.

He was weeping. 

Hannibal turned his head into him, feeling soft curls under his nose. 

“I love you,” Will sobbed against him. “I love you. I love you.” 

Hannibal felt his body warm as he pulled him closer, his shoulder wet and hot from Will’s tears. 

“I have loved you for a very long time, Will.”

**

The moon was nearly gone from the sky when Will woke with a sore shoulder and throbbing head. Moaning, he pulled himself away from Hannibal’s chest, a dried puddle of saliva on his ruined shirt. Grabbing Hannibal’s arm from around him, he carefully lowered it to the floor and pulled himself up to his knees. Hannibal’s belly was a mess of dried, flakey blood but the cut he’d placed there had been superficial only. 

Will looked at his sleeping face - his tussled hair and bruised throat - and leaned down, bringing his lips to the soft flesh of his belly. He lingered there for a moment, letting Hannibal’s taste creep into him before he came to stand on shaky legs. 

Using the wall for balance, he made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. He fumbled in the dark, nearly dropping the glass as he grabbed it from the cabinet. He filled it with cold water from the tap and drank it greedily until it seeped from the sides of his mouth. Will drank as though he’d never have the chance again. After refilling his glass several more times he placed it in the sink and turned to head back upstairs, stopping when something unfamiliar caught his eye.

On the counter by his side was a burst of color that came through even in the dark room. Stepping closer, Will saw that it was a bouquet arranged in a glass vase. 

Bells, blooms, and droplets. 

Pink, orange, white, purple, and blue. 

Oleander. Hydrangea. Foxgloves. Marigold. Wolf’s Bane.

All wrapped around a gentle flow of Lily of the Valley. 

Will leaned in carefully, letting his fingers brush the deceptively beautiful, poisonous collection until he bumped against the edge of a small envelope. Pulling it free, he found his name in cursive on the front and tore it open. Inside was a plain white card marked with Hannibal’s elegant script:

_All of my love._

_\- H._


	2. Chapter 2

Will ran his thumb over the slight indentation of the script before he placed the card back in the envelope and set it near the base of the glass vase. His legs felt weak under him. Moving back towards the sink he took a clean glass out of the cabinet, filled it with water, and headed back up the stairs and into the bathroom. Placing the glass on the floor by the clawfoot, he turned on the faucet and let the deep tub begin to fill. Leaving the warm water running, he went back into the spare room and found Hannibal sitting up on the floor, his head tilting up to meet Will’s gaze as he stepped inside. 

Coming to stand by Hannibal’s feet, Will reached down. 

“Come on.”

Hannibal took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, shifting his weight to silently alleviate the ache brought on by sleeping on the floor. Will led him by the hand into the bathroom. 

He stopped them in the middle of the room. 

“Let me,” Will said softly as he reached for the top button of Hannibal’s shirt and undid it, working his way down the center of his chest until the shirt fell loose around his torso. He pulled it back and down his arms before tossing the bloody garment to the floor. Dropping to his knees, Will undid the laces of Hannibal’s shoes and held them as Hannibal stepped out of them. He removed both socks, his fingers rubbing at the skin around Hannibal’s ankles as he did. 

Coming to his feet, Will kept his eyes on his own hands as he undid Hannibal’s belt, fingers grazing over blood that had soaked into the fabric. The older man’s warm gaze was on him, his nose brushing his forehead, as his pants were pulled open and down off his legs. The cut on his belly was red and angry, his throat and wrist dotted with bruises. 

“Come here.”

Hannibal came to him, continuing on towards the steaming bathtub with Will’s hand on his shoulder. Stepping in, he slowly sank down, his hand gripping the rim for balance. As he settled into the water, Will turned off the faucet and came to his knees by Hannibal’s head. His fingers grazed the marks on his neck. 

“I’m not sorry,” he stated plainly. 

Hannibal blinked once, his eyes heavy. 

“I know.” 

Will’s hand fell from his neck and dipped into the water, rubbing the dried blood off Hannibal’s skin. He watched it slightly tint the bath pink before he pulled his hand away and brought it to the rim of the porcelain. He fell onto his hip - legs bent and at his side - his head resting on his hand on the tub. 

The water sloshed as Hannibal moved outside his vision and hesitated. 

“Please,” Will said. 

He felt long, wet fingers come to rest in his hair; drops of warm water fell down the back of his neck. 

“You said you loved me.” 

Hannibal’s voice sounded tired, almost broken. 

“I did,” Will said, his face suddenly feeling tight from the dried tears on his cheeks. “I do.”

He closed his eyes against the feel of Hannibal’s fingers in his hair. His head was starting to throb. 

“Do you feel like I destroyed your life, Will?”

He pushed his cheek harder into his own hand on the edge of the tub.

“Yeah. Yeah, you did, Hannibal.”

Will’s jaw clicked, his eyes staring forward at the tile on the floor.

“But it was right for it to be destroyed - to die,” he continued. “It wasn’t real. I’ve known for a long time that it wasn’t real. But reading about Molly - it just . . . I wished I hadn’t dragged her and Walter into this. They didn’t deserve any of this.” 

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Hannibal said. “Though my feelings toward them are less than hospitable.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s true.” 

“I know,” Will said, pulling his head away to look at him. “Just don’t talk about them like that.”

“I’m not talking about them,” Hannibal defended. “I’m referring only to the emotions they stir in me.” 

“Hannibal,” he said as he looked into his eyes. “Stop.” 

He did.

The features in the older man’s face softened as he relaxed and closed his eyes, tipping his chin up to rest the nape of his neck on the edge of the tub. Will watched him rotate his shoulders as he settled. His arms came to rest on the slippery, white rim on either side of him. 

“It’s good though,” Will said softly. “Her divorcing me; it lets her move on.”

His hand found Hannibal’s, fingers rubbing against skin.

“And me too.”

In his mind he thought of Walter waking up from screaming nightmares. Thought of Molly relocating them over and over again. Thought of his dogs waiting by the front door for him to come home. 

“I just hope I didn’t fuck up everyone’s life too badly.” 

His eyes watered as he found Hannibal’s gaze. 

“Would it change anything if you knew it did?” Hannibal asked. “If you had had the foresight to have known years ago what you know now, would you do things differently?”

“ _Differently_? Jesus, of course I would,” he said. “But somehow, I’d still want us both to end up here. Right where we are.”

_On the run with Hannibal Lecter,_ he thought _. Who was sitting naked in a warm bath stained with blood inches away, spotted with bruises._

Hannibal pulled his arm up to take Will’s hand in his own before bringing it back to the edge of the tub. 

“You would have done it, wouldn’t you?” Will asked. “Cut off your hand, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you told me to.”

“That’s not normal, Hannibal.” 

He smiled. 

“No,” he said. “Is that the only thing that’s happened throughout the course of our relationship to strike you as being abnormal?”

Will squeezed his hand. 

“Fair point.”

He squinted as a dull ache hit his temples. Releasing Hannibal’s hand, he came to his feet and padded over to the medicine cabinet. Will took three painkillers from their bottle and came back to sit by the tub, grabbing the glass of water he’d let by the porcelain foot and swallowing them down.

“Can I make you something to eat?”

“No,” he said as it suddenly dawned on him that Hannibal had never made dinner. “Are you hungry?”

Hannibal shook his head softly. 

“Come to bed with me?”

“Certainly,” he agreed. “Would you care to join me first?’

Will looked into the pinkish water, at the empty space between Hannibal’s naked legs, and pulled the shirt over his head. 

They lay in the water together, one of Hannibal’s knees on either side of Will’s body, until the bath cooled and sunlight streamed in from the clouded window. Eyelids heavy, Will pushed back against the warmth of Hannibal’s body as he felt arms wrap around him.

“I didn’t get you anything.”

Hannibal hummed a question against his neck.

“For tonight. Well, yesterday,” he continued. “For our anniversary.”

“You are enough.”

Will groaned and lightly jabbed an elbow into Hannibal’s side. 

“You’re hopeless.”

Hannibal kissed the pulse under Will’s ear. 

“I am.” 

Will tipped his chin up, the back of his head finding Hannibal’s collarbone. They were suspended, entwined as they had been one year ago only this time in the safe confines of familiar white porcelain and not the black, vast ocean. Hannibal pulled a hand away and reached for Will’s left ring finger, rubbing where his wedding ring used to be.

“Would you care to marry again?”

Will furrowed his eyebrows, squinting with Hannibal’s words. 

“To you?”

Hannibal’s chest rose with his intake of breath. 

“That had been my idea, yes.” 

“You don’t think that’s a little fast and . . . traditional?”

“Are you planning on going somewhere?”  
  
“Would you let me?”

“Let you leave?”

Pulling away, Will came to sit on the other side of the tub, water spilling over the side with his movements. Hannibal pulled a leg to his chest to better make room for the other man’s legs. Will did the same. 

“Yes,” he asked. “If I told you right now, that I was leaving and never wanted to see you again, would you let me go?”

“I would,” he answered immediately.

Hannibal’s lips upturned in a gentle smile, his eyes shining.

“Really? You’d stay away?”

He nodded. 

“What would you do?”

Hannibal swallowed and flexed the foot of his upturned leg. 

“I cannot say with certainty,” he began. “I imagine I would flee to the opposite side of this world; live out the rest of my days as I had before I met you. Though, truthfully, I doubt I would be successful.”

Will watched emotion fill the sharp features of his face, felt the water surrounding them grow thick. 

“Such a life was very appealing to me years ago, before you. After you, I suspect I would find it to be an apparition of something once enjoyed.”

The tears were falling silently down his cheeks, no hint of shame in his expression. Will became Hannibal in his mind, imagined leading the solitary life he had in Baltimore and before that, surrounded by beauty and vicious, terrible, wonderful violence. A man who’d freely snuffed out life as he pleased, and only putting himself at risk when another likeminded soul happened into his path. A soul with whom he’d found acceptance and love when he’d unquestioningly never considered such a connection would ever be a part of his life.

“I’m not going anywhere, Hannibal,” Will said. “This is my best possible world.” 

Hannibal smiled again as Will came to his feet, stepping out of the cooled water and pulling the plug from the drain. He reached a hand down to Hannibal and pulled him to his feet.  They dried and moved to their shared bedroom, leaving the knife and whiskey bottle in the spare room for another hour. They dressed for bed, crawling under the sheets as the sun peeked through the curtains.

 As if on a timer they moved to the middle of the bed in the same moment, Hannibal’s arm coming up and around Will’s shoulders as he settled against his chest. 

Will’s hand traveled down to touch around the outside of the scar left by the Dragon’s bullet; a mark on his body not made by his own hands. 

“It probably makes sense,” Will said against his skin. “A legal tie to each other should anything happen to one of us.” 

Hannibal’s hand tightened on his shoulder. 

“There are other aspects to the idea that are also appealing.” 

“Such as?”

Pulling his head up, Will spoke into the crook of his neck. 

“I like the idea of you wearing a ring,” he whispered. “A visible, tangible thing that tells outsiders that you belong to someone.”

An exhale from Hannibal’s nose hit his cheek.

“Does that upset you,” Will asked, truthfully unsure. “The idea of being kept. Or at least being perceived as such?”

“Not at all,” Hannibal answered. “If it did I would not have suggested it.”

“I know but, knowing that that aspect of it appeals to _me_ ,” Will continued “That I would look at the ring on your hand and think: that body and soul belongs to me. That doesn’t bother you?”

“No,” Hannibal said. “I do belong to you, Will. It is nothing which brings me any indignity or discontentment. Quite the opposite in fact; it is a gentle, warming pulse.”

There was a sting behind his eyes and Will pulled back and up to kiss the soft curves of Hannibal’s mouth. 

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.” 

 


End file.
